Steel And Flame (Book 1)

by Damien Lake

  “Yes?”

  Wainright entered. “There’s a client waiting to speak to you.”

  “A client? Who?”

  “Baron Garroway.”

  Now here was a surprise. The baron was a longtime contractor with the Kings, though had contracted no men last year. Torrance had assumed Wainright meant one of last year’s few clients wanted to complain about their results. Garroway could only have come to arrange for a new contract next year.

  “Why is he here now?”

  “He said he’d rather discuss it over brandy.”

  Torrance snorted. “Did he? Very well, have him come in.”

  Why come to Kingshome so early? Garroway was among the very few nobles able to call directly on his office, the benefit of being a longtime contractor who treated the mercenaries as well as his own men. Most prospective clients had to work their way through Janus’ clerk network, several never meeting the commander at all. Either their contracts were rejected or the situations so standard an agreement could be hammered out by the subordinates.

  Torrance lifted two crystal glasses when the door opened to admit Baron Garroway.

  “Ah-ha, Torrance! It’s good to see you, my friend!”

  “Likewise, baron. You’ve arrived rather early this year. Come, have a seat by my hearth.”

  “It is my great pleasure!”

  Garroway accepted the proffered glass, then sat before the cheery blaze in Torrance’s fireplace.

  “You treat your guests well, commander. I should ride down more often and run up your supply bills!”

  Torrance set the bottle on the small table between the guest chairs and took the matching seat. “We are neighbors, Carrick. It’s only sensible to be on good terms.”

  “I was at the Hollister. My men and I were pushed south after the northern catapult was fired. We were fighting for our lives when a pair of men stepped forward to take on the entire Nolier army single-handedly.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “Not by much! I saw their entire bout, Torrance. And so did countless others. And not just soldiers,” Garroway confided with a lowered eyebrow.

  “Should that concern me?”

  “I’m not certain. The nobles talk, don’t you know?”

  “I doubt you rode south to pass on such a simple warning.”

  “No, not at all. I need men next year, of course.”

  “I concluded as much. Are you anticipating an increase in bandits due to the war?”

  Garroway grimaced. “That might be a problem. We’re not so far from the front, after all. No major roads run through my barony so the highwayguards can’t be counted on for aid. And everyone’s nervous about the problems in Tullainia. Except none of that’s why I rode in person.”

  “I wondered at that. You could have as easily sent a representative.”

  “Then I wouldn’t enjoy your fine liquor!” Garroway raised his glass in a toast before continuing. “Anyway, this time of year, there’s not much for me to do except sit around and worry over how I’ll afford my barony taxes.”

  “Is that why you rode so early? As you noticed, we haven’t even held our applicant trials yet.”

  “I wanted to make sure I was your first client this year.”

  “For what? You couldn’t afford to hire the entire band, and I don’t think you’d ever need that many men. If the Tullainian aggressors cross the border, no doubt the seneschal will try to conscript us, and hiring fees be damned. We would have to call off any contracts we’d signed. Even one with an old friend.”

  Garroway’s grin wiped away his concerned frown. “For the contest, of course! I only need a few of your boys for bodyguards.”

  Torrance blinked, then asked, “Are you sure that’s still on? The last rumors I heard said the tournament might be canceled if Tullainia heated up any further. The king will have too many other worries to deal with.”

  “It is on. Yesterday I received a notice from the palace that went out to all the nobles.

  “I wouldn’t want to be the Arm for the next three years.” Torrance shifted his gaze to his guest. “You are going to compete, then?”

  “Not I, no. It will be my eldest son, Hilliard. He’s dreamed of it for as long as he’s held a sword. The fault of his damn fool nursery attendant’s tales, no doubt.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s finally of eligible age, and nothing is going to dissuade him. I’ve never been able to afford many regular fighting men, you know that, and right at this particular time I’ll need every one of them who survived on patrol for the next few seasons.”

  Torrance nodded. “For the tournament, we customarily assign four men. That’s enough for bodyguard duty.”

  Garroway cleared his throat. “Well, that brings me to the heart of it, my friend.”

  “Something else?”

  “Maybe not. I hope not.” He paused for a moment. “You know Duke Tilus.”

  It had been a statement, not a question, but Torrance replied as such. “Indeed. One of the few nobles who live up to the definition.”

  The baron ignored the veiled jibe. “He’s an old friend of mine, actually. We were fostered together at Earl Radburn’s holding as boys, don’t you know? Oh, I could tell you stories about what we got up to at the earl’s place. Did you know all his maids nicknamed him ‘Earl Rugburn’?”

  “I’m sure you could, and no I didn’t know that.” Torrance shook his head in feigned solemnity. “How did your class manage to convince the rest of us to call you ‘nobles’?”

  “Anyway, Tilus is duke in Spirratta these days. He takes on a greater number of fosterlings than most, and he took on my eldest as we’re good friends.”

  The remaining picture solidified for Torrance. “I see. The duke’s been having difficulty the last few years.”

  “That’s a mild way of putting it.” Garroway’s grimace returned tenfold. “He’s always been death on the underworld and anyone associated with it ever since we were kids.”

  “He’s lived through several attempted assassinations by the dark guilds, yet held fast to his principles.”

  “That’s Tilus, for certain. Then last year the thieves switched tactics.”

  “I believe one of the fosterlings was killed. A warning to the duke, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “It slowed him down for awhile, but he’s renewed his polices against crime with a vengeance. There haven’t been any new attacks against the fosterlings under his care, except that doesn’t mean they’ve given up on the idea.”

  “You feel they might think an attack while abroad would be easier than while the fosterlings are under the duke’s roof. That’s a reasonable assumption.”

  “And that’s why I wanted to talk with you before you assigned away those two men of yours who took down Ronley.” Garroway met the commander’s eyes over his glass. “I intend to get the best men I possibly can to protect Hilliard while this tournament is going on. I want them.”

  * * * * *

  Without warning, a figure abruptly stormed into the Fourth Unit’s bunk area. A figure who had never been there before.

  “Mage!”

  Marik fumbled with the book, the shout having surprised him. Colbey stood in the empty space where the half-wall ended. “Colbey? What are you doing in here?”

  “Get your sword and follow me.” It was delivered as a directive.

  Before Marik could respond, the scout vanished. Now what’s going on?

  A break would be in perfect order. He shoved aside the clothes hanging in his closet to retrieve his father’s sword. In the back, the Nolier duke’s giant blade barely fit inside. Shifting the enormous book diagonally, it too just managed to squeeze in.

  He took his leather gloves and a cloak as well, hoping he would be prepared for whatever the scout had in mind. Predicting anything regarding Colbey was a waste of time.

  The scout stood beside the main door when Marik entered the dining area. He immediately departed without a word. Clearl
y he expected the apprentice mage to follow.

  I guess I’ll play along. When did he get back, anyway?

  Colbey brought him west across the town. When he continued straight across the Marching Grounds without slowing, Marik suspected where they might be going. His thoughts were confirmed when they came to a thick tree line behind four barracks identical to his own.

  The First Training Area, exclusive to Squads One through Four. Marik had never been to this part of town despite starting his third year of residence.

  From the wall, Marik had never been able to see clearly into this training area. He expected it to open up once inside the trees. Instead, he found quite the opposite. It grew into a thick brush tangle, much like a forest groundcover between taller trees in a deep forest.

  The scout stopped in a small clearing that was free of obstacles for roughly thirty feet in every direction. To the north, Marik judged this sylvan cover might thin out. He estimated the thicker growth filled the entire lower half of the training area. Trees hid the barracks well enough to nearly conceal the fact they were inside a town at all.

  Colbey drew his sword. He held the hilt in one hand with the bare blade laying across his other palm. It possessed a ceremonial feel, and he lowered his head while rotating his hands. The sword ended straight up, the hilt gripped firmly, the other palm pressing into the steel backside.

  His head rose. His sword tip lowered to an inch above the ground. “We will spar. Show me what you are capable of.”

  Marik had half-expected this, and voiced the question floating in his mind. “Why?”

  “You owe me a favor, mage. I need to see how deeply I can rely on you.”

  That’s rich! Didn’t we take down those knights together?

  But he needed the exercise after spending the morning curled up on his cot in various awkward positions. Colbey cast one quick, scornful look over Rail’s old blade. Dietrik was correct; he needed to visit the armory soon.

  The guard stance would be best for openers, Marik decided. It would give Colbey the first move, which he would counter…except the scout refused to budge. He stood in the same posture, not moving so much as a finger’s width. After a full minute, Marik knew Colbey would stay that way until vines grew around him.

  Fine! Be like that! Marik leapt, striking with an eastern slash that would come from Colbey’s west. He almost missed the smaller man’s sword move, so fast did it flick up. The shock vibrated through his arm.

  Marik tried to use the reflected momentum to his advantage. He swung the sword around, flowing into a southeast slash.

  Before he knew what happened, he lay flat on his back, straining to inhale through the coughs wracking him. Colbey’s sword was at his throat. The scout back-stepped after making the point, allowing Marik to regain his feet.

  His breathing smoothed while he rubbed his midriff. He glared at Colbey, wanting to ask what had happened yet too prideful to admit he didn’t know. Marik harshly reminded himself that he was not sparring against his friends in the Ninth, but an elite Second Squader.

  This time he advanced with greater caution and instigated his best strike series. Every blow was met and deflected, and Marik sensed Colbey refrained from striking out in a counterattack between each.

  Colbey had always treated those around him with mild contempt. This had annoyed Marik tremendously when he’d first been required to work with the scout, but the teachings he received at the Hollister Bridge were enough to make him tolerate the attitude. Even so, the old emotions returned despite the control Marik had mastered over his temper since joining the band.

  Marik pushed his speed, striking with alternating high and low blows before eating the dirt a second time without warning.

  Gods damn it! I haven’t let anyone walk over me like this since Chatham instructed me!

  When he caught his breath, he noticed Colbey remained as impassive as before.

  “You see what comes of this?” he asked.

  What sense did that make? “Comes of what?” Marik snarled.

  The scout squatted to crouch on his ankles. “These mercenaries take the strongest they find, according to them. They put them in this town with a sword in their hand and say ‘Now get better. But we won’t teach you how.’ And these men spend an entire winter hacking at straw, learning nothing.”

  “What are you talking about?” The comment attacked Marik’s pride after all the effort he had put forth.

  Colbey glared at him. “No one learns how to wield a sword simply by holding it. You may get stronger, yet strength and skill are not the same.”

  “The Kings don’t take anyone who doesn’t know how to use a sword already!”

  “Learning the basics does not make you advanced. Look at you. After years in this band, you still don’t know anything beyond what you did when you joined, I’m certain.”

  Furious heat rose to Marik’s face. “I’ve improved tenfold since I joined!”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “I’m stronger! Faster! My endurance is higher! My precision better!”

  Colbey nodded. “The basics, in other words. You may have improved your body, yet you have not improved your knowledge. This town of sheep suffers from the illusion of power.”

  “We’re the best in the kingdom!”

  “A kingdom full of sheep breeds only strong sheep. Unsupervised training will never allow you to be more than that.”

  Marik surged to his feet, his knuckles white around the hilt. Colbey stopped him with a strange smile.

  “I think you might be capable of more than that.” He raised his sword to a guard position. “You say you want to be a swordsman rather than a mage? Then come at me. We will practice everyday until I leave.”

  That brought Marik up short. “Leave? Are you quitting the band?”

  “I have a secret mission abroad from the commander, but do not concern yourself with other matters!” Colbey barked. “Concentrate on the present! If you want to become capable, then we start now!” And with that, Colbey descended on him.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Book 01 Novice

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Book 02 Mercenary

  Interlude

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Other books by Damien Lake:

  Excerpts from “Arm of Galemar”